


you catch on like a bonfire

by idrilka



Series: in medias res [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Fingering, Future Fic, M/M, Relationship Upgrade, Riding, sex is always a competition around here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 21:42:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9290768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idrilka/pseuds/idrilka
Summary: It’s Yuri’s third time in Asia with the Stars on Ice tour, but the first time he gets to do this with Otabek.(An interlude. In which there are things Yuri needs to admit about himself.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Since apparently I'm unable to leave things alone, this is now a series. But before I start on the sequel, here's a short interlude in which there are tour shenanigans and Yurio figuring some things out.  
> As always, huge thanks to all the enablers on twitter and elsewhere, and to radialarch for beta.

They land in Fukuoka at some ass o’clock after five hours on a plane from Bangkok. 

Yuri slept through most of the flight, and he goes through customs groggy and cranky. His joints ache like a motherfucker after the last-minute fuck-up at Suvarnabhumi that meant they had to fly coach this time to make it on schedule. What he needs is a cup of coffee, a bed, and five more hours of uninterrupted rest before he can start to look like something vaguely resembling a human being. Currently, he’s just a pissed-off bundle of animal print, hair tangles, and cold sweat. 

He fucking hates travelling by plane. Buses he can handle, and he likes trains best, but every time he steps off a plane, smelling like the stale recycled air, he feels like he’s just aged five years in the span of a few hours. 

Victor, on the other hand, is ecstatic and fresh as a daisy, like the fucker didn’t just spend the same five hours in the same cramped seats. The only consolation is that Katsuki also looks like shit warmed over.

You win some, you lose some, Yuri guesses.

“Come on,” Otabek says, handing Yuri his luggage. “The bus is waiting.”

Yuri drags the suitcase behind him unceremoniously and clambers onto the bus, then claims the first free window seat and collapses against the backrest. Otabek slots into the aisle seat next to him a moment later. 

“Sleep,” he tells Yuri. “I’ll wake you up when we get to the hotel.” 

 

They get a late start the following morning. It’s almost ten a.m. when Yuri finally comes down for breakfast, grabbing a cup of plain yogurt from the buffet on his way along with a mug of coffee. He needs about four more of those before anyone should attempt to talk to him. 

“Good morning,” Otabek says as Yuri slumps into the chair next to him. He has a half-eaten bowl of oatmeal and an assortment of fresh fruit in front of him. “Your hair is a mess.”

Yuri takes a large drink of his coffee and gives Otabek the finger at the same time. “Fuck off,” he says into the rim of his cup. “Just because you’re a freak with perfect hair doesn’t mean we all have to be.”

In lieu of answering, Otabek catches Yuri by the extended finger and tugs until Yuri can feel the knuckle joints pop.

“So I’m a freak with perfect hair, huh?” Otabek glances off to the side at Yuri, and honestly, nobody should be able to look this smug when they have roughly one facial expression to go around on the best of days.

Yuri can feel the violent flush that creeps up his neck and threatens to flood his face.

“You’re something, okay,” he says stubbornly, burying his face in his hoodie. “Now shut up and eat your oatmeal. And give me the apples. You can have your disgusting grapefruit.”

 

The first rehearsal is at noon. 

The arena is located only five minutes on foot away from the hotel, so they leave more or less as a group at half past eleven. The ice dancers are dragging behind as usual, because they can never be anywhere on time, apparently, but the singles skaters and pairs walk slowly in a chaotic jumble of people and luggage. 

They all look equally haggard and groggy after that fucking joke of a trip from Thailand, but there’s also the fact that they’re almost at the end of the tour—they have only Fukuoka, Osaka, and Tokyo left. At that point everyone usually just switches to quietly bitching and moaning about everything in existence. 

It’s Yuri’s third time in Asia with the Stars on Ice tour, but the first time he gets to do this with Otabek. Usually, they had Otabek do the European leg, while Yuri got invited to join the tour in Russia and then travel with the rest of the cast all over Asia.

This year, they wanted both of them for the entire tour. They have big enough names to headline the whole event now, and the silverware to prove it: their Grand Prix Final medals; Yuri’s gold at Worlds and Otabek’s bronze; Yuri’s European Championship title and Otabek’s silver from Four Continents. 

There is, of course, Victor, whose name and face are plastered all over the goddamn banners, for no reason other than he’s Victor Nikiforov, and Yuri would be jealous of the extent of Katsuki’s ridiculous popularity, but his own face is right there next to the two of them on all the posters, so he guesses he has no room to talk.

Rehearsal is just more of the same old dull stuff—and after nearly four weeks of doing the same thing over and over again, there’s only so much rehearsing they can do before Yuri wants to die of boredom. Honestly, it’s all the endless waiting around that’s killing him the most, and fucking with Georgi to rile him up stopped being funny after the first week.

Now, Yuri is sitting in one of the plastic chairs with his feet up, skates still on, watching Victor and Katsuki run through their two pair routines while looking disgustingly in love. They’ve been married for almost a year now, and Yuri hoped they’d lose the honeymoon period bullshit somewhere along the way, but apparently no fucking dice.

There is something breathtaking in the way these two move together, though, Yuri has to grudgingly admit. So maybe they way they act around each other makes him want to gag sometimes, so what. That doesn’t mean that Yuri doesn’t want—things. From time to time. Every now and then. 

_Whatever_. 

He’s allowed to want some of that stuff, too, especially with Otabek on the other side of the fucking world most of the time. 

Well, not anymore. Now most of Otabek’s belongings are either in storage, in boxes at his new St. Petersburg apartment, or strewn all over Yuri’s floor.

“Want to try?” 

Yuri almost gives himself whiplash turning around to face Otabek, who’s now sitting next to him, his jacket zipped up and fingerless gloves on. He’s still wearing his skates, too. No reason to re-tie them just for the final number rehearsal; it’s always too much hassle and generally just not worth it.

“Try what?” Yuri asks flatly, looking back to the ice where Victor and Yuuri are just coming out of a lift and right into a spiral, never breaking eye contact.

Otabek points to the ice. 

“Please.” Yuri rolls his eyes, voice dripping with disdain. “I’d had enough of them over that year they’d spent in Saint Petersburg. It was like that all the time.”

Otabek raises one brow and Yuri, not for the first time, feels like he can see right through him, cutting through his bullshit with laser precision. Sometimes he wishes Otabek weren’t like that. Other times, he doesn’t quite mind. He hasn’t made up his mind about this one yet.

“Victor is gonna slip a goddamn disc one of these days and that’s gonna be the end of it,” Yuri continues, his mouth carrying him further and faster than his mind can catch up. “He’s not getting any younger over there.”

Otabek smiles with the corner of his mouth in that annoying way that still has Yuri fighting the weird feeling in his gut. 

“Yeah, he’s practically one foot in the grave already,” he says, deadpan. 

Yuri goes to elbow him in the side, but Otabek ducks at the last moment. Damn. His reflexes must be getting faster.

“Whatever, it’s _stupid_ ,” Yuri insists, just to prove a point and be stubborn more than anything else. 

When he’s pretty sure Otabek isn’t paying attention, he sneaks a quick glance off to the side. Otabek has nice arms—good biceps, strong forearms, great hands. He probably wouldn’t drop Yuri like a sack of potatoes, even though his last growth spurt has left them at practically equal height, almost fucking up Yuri’s entire career in the process. Sure, Victor has ridiculous upper body strength for someone who’s not a pair skater or ice dancer, but Otabek is no fucking slouch either.

All of that is, of course, purely hypothetical, because Yuri wouldn’t be caught dead prancing around the rink like some desperate love-struck loser.

“Right, of course,” Otabek says, then pushes his hair back. It’s grown out a little on the top over these past few weeks and now it keeps falling into his eyes.

Yuri can’t stop the heat slowly uncoiling in his gut, his traitor of a body screwing him over yet again. “What,” he starts, “do _you_ want to try it or something?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

Otabek keeps staring straight ahead, his face carefully blank. Yuri knows he’s trying to smother a smile. 

 

“Come on, we’re going. Bring your skates with you.”

Yuri blinks himself awake and sits up just in time to catch the apple flying his way. It’s more instinct than anything else, really, because on the inside, Yuri is halfway between still asleep and already pissed off.

“What the fuck,” he says flatly, his voice rough from sleep.

He glances at the digital clock. It’s quarter past six in the morning. 

On the other side of the room, Otabek is calmly collecting Yuri’s practice gear like it’s a thing they do. What it really is is fucking _bizarre_.

“You can eat on our way there,” Otabek clarifies once he looks up and sees Yuri’s expression. It explains _fuck all_ , as far as Yuri is concerned.

“What?” he asks again but pushes the covers to the side and slowly rests his feet on the floor. It’s cold, and goosebumps rise all the way up his calves and thighs. 

“Dress rehearsal doesn’t start until eight thirty,” Otabek says as Yuri pulls on his leggings and looks for a shirt. “But the rink opens in fifteen minutes.” A pause. “So? Are you coming or not?”

Grudgingly, Yuri follows Otabek, munching on his apple and the protein bar he’d grabbed before they left. 

The rink is almost completely empty when they push the back door open to get in, but the poor bastard who drew the short straw to get the morning shift still waves hello at them when they pass him in the hallway. 

The lights are on already, the surface of the ice pristine and crisp. Yuri and Otabek lace up their skates in silence.

“So do you want to tell me why I’m here instead of in my bed, sleeping?” Yuri asks, always stubborn and contrarian down to the core even when he doesn’t really mind. Especially then. 

“Yura, come on,” Otabek admonishes gently and Yuri can feel himself relent. 

It’s always been like this, the push and pull of it.

Next thing he knows, Otabek steps onto the ice and extends his arm toward Yuri, palm up. “Skate with me.”

“So you dragged me here at some ass o’clock just to, what, reenact some sappy bullshit fantasy out of Victor and Katsudon’s playbook?”

Otabek doesn’t move, his hand still extended in Yuri’s direction, fingers pointed gracefully in a way that even Lilia couldn’t find fault with. 

“Come on, just skate with me.”

Yuri goes, furious with himself. This isn’t _him_ , he keeps telling himself, he doesn’t _do_ these things, so what the hell is he even doing now, taking Otabek’s hand like they fit together somehow, the way Victor and Yuuri fit together, too.

What they have is different. That doesn’t mean it’s not worth having. 

The first touch of Otabek’s hand on his waist almost makes him trip over his own toe pick like he’s some fucking loser going out to Gorky Park to skate for the first time in his life in the middle of December, not the reigning World Champion.

They settle into a comfortable rhythm soon enough, because Yuri is nothing if not a natural, and so is Otabek. They don’t do any of the mushy lovey-dovey stuff, and Otabek doesn’t try to lift him or throw him, or do any of the stupid, risky shit Victor and Yuuri do. Instead, they circle around the ice for a while, hip to hip, until Otabek turns Yuri in his arms so that they’re facing each other and spins them, then gently dips Yuri and leans down to kiss the side of his neck. 

Yuri’s breath gets heavy with more than just the exertion as Otabek leaves a trail of kisses leading up to the sensitive spot behind Yuri’s ear.

Yuri shoves him away, trying to scowl and failing. “It tickles, you asshole! And you _know_ that.”

Always ready to go on the offensive, Yuri recovers and skates forward, pushing Otabek until his ass hits the boards and Yuri can hear the satisfying sound of the air being pushed out of Otabek’s lungs.

“Who’s laughing now, huh?” Yuri asks, pressing him further into the boards. He doesn’t need to strain his neck to kiss Otabek now. The only good thing that came out of this whole growth spurt business.

“So,” Otabek starts with his lips pressed lightly against Yuri’s pulse point, “did you have fun?”

“Ugh, why do you even have to ask?” Yuri slides his thigh between Otabek’s legs and presses up until he can hear the nervous click of Otabek’s throat as he swallows. “Yes, I had fun,” he admits grudgingly, then grabs Otabek’s hand and presses his open palm against his half-hard cock. “Now what are you gonna do about _this_?”

In response, Otabek just smiles. 

“After the show,” he tells him. 

It sounds like a threat and a promise. Yuri can’t decide which thrills him more.

 

The show drags on longer than usual, with a small fan-meeting afterwards, because Katsudon is still too fucking popular for his own good, and the producers of the show are in the business of making money. So of course they milk it for all it’s worth, dragging the rest of them along for the ride. In the thirty minutes following the last number and encore, Yuri signs more photos and autographs more cat ears than is entirely fucking reasonable, if anyone asked him. Since no one asks, though, the only thing he can do is stew in his anticipation.

Otabek is not helping things, either; he stays close to Yuri, radiating body heat and brushing against him every now and then in a way that looks accidental but Yuri knows is fucking deliberate.

They skip the after party at the hotel altogether—some people are going up to their rooms to take a nap and change, others are giving up on the free booze and food just to sleep off the entire evening, the way they always do after a show, so it’s nothing suspicious or out of the ordinary. Victor still fucking _winks_ at Yuri when he passes the two of them on their way to the elevator.

Yuri scowls.

They make it through the half-deserted corridor without running into anyone who would tattle on them—they pass Cao Bin, who’s next door to Otabek, and see Seung-gil’s retreating back as he walks back to his room at the very end of the hallway, but all the biggest gossips are already downstairs, getting sloshed on mid-shelf champagne. 

Whatever, it’s not like the people here don’t know they’re fucking.

As soon as the door to Otabek’s room closes behind them with a quiet click, Yuri pins him in place and presses a bruising kiss to his mouth, desperate and hungry. He’s done waiting for Otabek to stop being such a fucking tease. 

“You know what that’s for,” he tells Otabek after he bites at Otabek’s bottom lip, with his palm flat against his sternum, their mouths almost touching. “It’s your fault for making me like this.”

Otabek catches a strand of Yuri’s hair between his thumb and forefinger and tugs, not enough to hurt but hard enough for Yuri to take notice. 

“Maybe I like you like this,” Otabek says in that ridiculously earnest tone that Yuri still has no idea how to respond to. 

It’s one of the best and worst things about Otabek—the way he blurts things out like they’re obvious but still need to be said just because they’re the truth. It’s embarrassing as all hell, and yet Yuri can’t help but like it despite himself. With Otabek, he always knows where he’s standing.

“Come on, you said _after the show_ ,” Yuri says. He unzips his hoodie and drops it on the floor, then pulls his t-shirt over his head. “It’s after the show now.”

He takes a step back, towards the bed, and yanks Otabek by the collar of his ridiculously low-cut v-neck that exposes his collarbones and the hint of chest hair hidden under the shirt that keeps driving Yuri completely fucking insane.

When they reach the bed, Yuri just lets himself fall, pulling Otabek over him until he can feel the weight of his body and the heat he gives off. He grabs the hem of Otabek’s shirt and yanks it off just to throw it off to the side, then runs his hands up and down Otabek’s chest. When he drags his fingernails across his abs, Otabek shivers.

“What, cat got your tongue?” Yuri asks, then surges up to kiss him, fingers digging into the nape of Otabek’s neck as he brings their lips together. 

“I think there are better uses for my tongue right now than talking,” Otabek says before licking a wet stripe up the side of Yuri’s neck, and that’s just fucking _cheating_ , because Otabek knows full well how much that makes Yuri squirm.

“Come _on_.” 

Yuri wraps a leg around Otabek’s waist and prods him with his heel. They’re still wearing clothes, which offends Yuri on several levels, and Otabek is still not fucking doing anything, apart from kissing and biting at Yuri’s neck, and, honestly, if he comes before they even take their pants off, he’s gonna be _so pissed_.

Finally, Otabek pulls himself up and reaches into his suitcase for lube and condoms, then tosses them to Yuri. 

“What, am I supposed to finger myself?” Yuri asks.

“No, you were supposed to finger me. But in that case…” Otabek pauses to look at Yuri, who does his best to stretch across the mattress all seductive and shit, his legs falling open. “Okay, get on your stomach,” he says, running his hand up and down Yuri’s side.

Yuri is more than happy to oblige.

 

True to his experience, Otabek Altin is a fucking _tease_.

He’s been at it for the past half an hour, fingering Yuri with a single-minded focus like he’s not leaking through the fabric of his boxer-briefs, just to slowly drive Yuri insane, one finger at a time. The sheets are a mess, and Yuri would be more concerned about the housekeeping staff if his dick wasn’t currently trapped between his abdomen and the mattress, his thighs quivering as he tries to ease some of the pressure. Slowly, he lifts his hips off the bed just a little bit, just to stop feeling like he’s going to come if he so much as moves against the covers. 

Otabek still doesn’t stop. 

“I’m not gonna be _more_ ready, you know,” Yuri says, looking over his shoulder with a glare, and that’s his first mistake right there, because there’s a flush across Otabek’s nose and cheeks, and he looks so fucking far gone that Yuri needs to close his eyes and hang his head between his shoulders, forehead touching the bed, before he loses it. 

“Believe it or not, it’s not about that,” Otabek tells him, and when Yuri chances another look, he looks unbearably smug even under his vicious flush.

Yuri tries to scowl, but instead he bites into his bottom lip to stop the moan that’s threatening to escape. 

“Yeah, no fucking kidding. C’mon, enough of this.” He pushes Otabek’s hand away and rolls over onto his back. Before Otabek can do anything, Yuri grabs the condom with one hand and yanks Otabek’s boxer-briefs past his hips down to mid-thigh with the other. Then he presses Otabek down to the bed with a palm to the center of his chest and hovers over him as he rolls the condom on. 

He sinks down onto him in one fluid movement until the backs of his thighs press against the juts of Otabek’s hipbones. Yuri can hear the sharp intake of breath under him; when he looks down, Otabek is propped up on his elbows, his head thrown back, exposing his neck. 

“Got bored?” Otabek asks in a voice so breathless Yuri can’t help but smile with satisfaction. 

He lifts himself up slightly and grinds down with a singular purpose. Otabek moans, the sound wrenched out of him like he’s trying not to die.

_Score_. 

“Yeah, of your fucking teasing,” Yuri says, leaning forward to wrap his arms around Otabek’s neck and press a kiss to the underside of his jaw. 

He pushes Otabek down onto the bed and settles himself into a slow, excruciating rhythm that he knows must be driving Otabek crazy. His hands are braced against Otabek’s chest as he gradually picks up the pace and the movement of his hips takes on an erratic and desperate edge. He’s been hard for what feels like hours, and the slight burn of the stretch doesn’t seem to be enough to get him to come. 

Yuri drags his fingers down Otabek’s skin, leaving red marks across his chest; he can feel the way Otabek’s abs contract, so he does it again, harder this time, trying to bring himself right to the brink of orgasm along with Otabek with each frantic roll of his hips.

The sound their bodies make where they meet is obscene, and Yuri closes his eyes for a moment, focusing only on that sound and the heavy smell of sex he keeps breathing in. His stomach flips when he leans a little forward and the angle changes at the same time as his cock brushes against Otabek’s abs. He could probably come just like that, rubbing himself off against Otabek’s six-pack until he makes a mess of his stomach.

There’s a strangled sound that escapes Otabek’s mouth, and then his hand on Yuri’s thigh stops him mid-air, the grip strong and desperate. Yuri sinks all the way down anyway and, fuck, that feels good—the iron clasp of Otabek’s fingers around his hipbone, the deep stretch when he pushes right down to the base of his cock.

Otabek licks his lips, his hand still holding Yuri’s hips down, ass flush against Otabek’s thighs.

“You need to stop,” Otabek says, “or I’m going to come.”

Yuri’s first instinct is to grind down even harder. “Isn’t that the whole point?” he asks and punctuates it with another roll of his hips.

Beneath him, Otabek is breathing heavily, and Yuri can see the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the faint sheen of sweat gathering between his pectorals. 

“Yes, but it’s been five minutes.”

Yuri looks down at him and grins, remembering the time when he made Otabek come in his pants in the bathroom at the banquet after Skate America. It still ranks as one of his proudest moments, and that includes winning the Grand Prix Final at fifteen. 

“Who the fuck cares,” he says before he pulls Otabek up until he’s sitting on the bed with Yuri straddling his lap and Yuri’s arms wrapped around his neck.

Now that they’re chest to chest, with Yuri’s cock trapped between their bodies, he uses this advantage to grind down harder, his lips slack against Otabek’s pulse point, tasting salt and skin as he keeps grinding down faster and harder. He’s leaking all over himself and Otabek’s abs, the tip of his cock pink and flushed, and he knows he will come the moment one of them touches his dick. 

But this is also payback for being a fucking cocktease, so Yuri would rather die than come before Otabek; he would never give him the satisfaction. 

So he keeps going, even as Otabek presses sloppy, wet kisses all over Yuri’s neck and collarbones, dragging his teeth across the flushed skin there. Yuri feels like his entire body is on fire. 

As a last resort, he angles himself away from Otabek, arching his back, and he can feel the moment Otabek loses it—he feels the trembling in Otabek’s thighs, the way his abdomen contracts when he comes; hears the strangled moan and the sharp intake of breath. Then, Otabek wraps his hand around Yuri’s cock with little ceremony or finesse.

It’s not like Yuri gives a fuck about finesse, though, because he comes as soon as Otabek’s fingers brush against the head of his cock, his eyes screwed shut and an embarrassing sound escaping his throat, halfway between a moan and a sob.

“Got you first,” he says in a hoarse voice once he opens his eyes to look at Otabek. 

His hair is getting everywhere, plastered to his neck and falling over his face like a curtain. It’s too fucking long and he should probably just take a pair of scissors to it, but he likes the way Otabek pulls at it sometimes when they get a little rough, wrapping a handful around his palm and closing it into a fist before he tugs.

So the hair stays, even though it makes sex really fucking annoying. Like now. 

Otabek, though, says nothing and just reaches up to push the hair away, then cups Yuri’s jaw with his hand and kisses him, open-mouthed and wet. 

Yuri waits until his breathing evens out, then pulls off with a slight grimace and slumps down onto the bed to lie on his stomach. Otabek presses a kiss between his shoulder blades and gets up to trash the condom.

“I bet all your stuff will be there when we get home,” Yuri says, looking over his shoulder at Otabek. 

Now that he’s gotten whatever fever was running just under his skin out of his system, he can think more clearly, and his mind keeps stubbornly replaying the picture of Otabek’s new place, full of unpacked boxes, and the rest of his stuff that’s lying around back at Yuri’s apartment. It doesn’t even look out of place, and Yuri is not entirely sure what to do with that.

If he, of all people, is getting so fucking sappy and homesick, it’s a good thing the tour is coming to an end in a little less than a week.

“It should be.” 

Yuri catches the moment where Otabek looks down at his chest, still marked with slowly fading red left by Yuri’s nails, and he could swear that Otabek smiles with the corner of his mouth. 

“Right, so—” Before he can finish, Otabek rolls him over onto his back and buries his face into the crook of Yuri’s neck, where he _knows_ it will tickle, the fucker.

“If you help me unpack, the dinner’s on me.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to, come say hi on [tumblr](http://idrilka.tumblr.com) :)


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